


Bluebells and Forget-Me-Nots

by Cân Cennau (gwenynnefydd)



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Ethical Dilemmas, Forgiveness, Intersex Kelas Parmak, Kidnapping, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Other, Personal Growth, Politics, Repentance, Romance, Trans Elim Garak, Trans Julian Bashir, Trust Issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-01
Updated: 2017-07-01
Packaged: 2020-07-09 21:41:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19894780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gwenynnefydd/pseuds/C%C3%A2n%20Cennau
Summary: (DUPLICATE POSTING)Following Pulaski’s almost disastrous visit to Cardassia Prime and the committee recommendations for punishment regarding the Bajoran Occupation, Garak realizes that he cannot balance his relationship with Parmak, caring for Julian and being the Castellan all at the same time. Perhaps it is not his place to be in political servitude to Cardassia and its people. It is time for his work to wind down.There are just a few loose ends to tie up first.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This is me reclaiming some of my orphaned works, since i was very gungho about orphaning before. proof availaible on request~

The Castellan’s house was dark, the lights low, and the air quiet. Nothing stirred the outside grounds of the house, and barely anything stirred inside either - the remnants of dinner lay scattered on the kitchen table, abandoned for another day, and the grandfather clock ticked into the empty living room where a _kotra_ board lay undisturbed on the coffee table. The only movement was that of someone upstairs, broad of shoulder and of hip but dressed in darkness, who slipped from one of the rooms upstairs and shut the door with a soft _snap_.

The soft glow of the hallway lamps illuminated the soft edges of Elim Garak’s face as he paused, peering into another room which had the door ajar. He stopped there for a moment, before a fondness graced his expression and he moved on, sweeping down the stairs and into the living room. He paused briefly to file a book away on one of the numerous bookshelves that lined the living room walls, before moving to a cabinet in the corner. There was a quiet clink of bottles as the castellan fiddled with a glass and chose his preferred poison. He chose a bright blue bottle, a sweet variety of _kanar_ , and brought both it and a tumblr over to the coffee table, before pouring himself a glass and downing it.

He refilled the glass, downed that one too, refilled again, and then, and only then, did Garak relax, letting loose a deep, long-held sigh.

What a _mess._

The past week had been more of a trial than he’d anticipated - he could feel the creeping, bone deep exhaustion wrapping around each of his creeping joints. Parmak had already begged off for an early night, face all worn creases and the downward turn of tiredness, and now lay ensconced in the duvet of their shared bed upstairs. Garak had considered joining him, after having read an enigma tale to the catatonic Julian Bashir, but opted not - he could feel the squirrelling desire for self reflection underneath his scales, and knew Parmak would only get annoyed with him if he went to bed feeling so unsettled.

And so, armed with a glass of _kanar_ , Elim Garak reflected.

Where to start? The events were straightforward enough - political machinations, plotting, a resurgence of old arguments… but the fallout was new. Garak had made mistakes, he knew that; he’d held all his cards too close to his chest, and bluffed his way into a poker game that no-one wanted to play. It had hurt him deeply, to realise how far he’d gone, and how little he’d noticed. Parmak’s shaking hands, their striken confrontation in the office, Mhevet’s intervention… Garak was lucky that they were all so forgiving. He certainly wasn’t, and his regrets and actions chased each other around his head like wolves chasing their own tails. Parmak had been hurt by his actions, as had his mentee Mhevet, as had Bashir, even if the latter was in no fit state to appreciate it.

_I thought he looked lonely, Castellan. I thought he looked like he could do with a friend._

Pulaski’s words drifted around his head, snaking into his memories and entwining like _mekla_ around his thoughts. Had he not been a good friend to Bashir? Had he not cared for him, spoken to him, dreamed of him? And yet, Pulaski had managed to do what he hadn’t - she’d brought Kukalaka, she’d brought an outside perspective, she’d brought something different to the ruminations that Garak often brought. And Garak had guarded him jealously, hoarding him into the crevices of shadows, present but untouchable, until Parmak had knocked him down a few pegs. What kind of friend had he been?

Garak sipped at his _kanar,_ feeling the sharp sting of alcohol burn down his throat. Parmak had described him as over-cautious with regards to Bashir, and he was right in a sense - Garak had no desire to hand him on a silver platter to his enemies. But no, there was something more to it - a jealousy, a desire to covet him, to keep him to himself and away from anyone else. He’d felt it, a blackness when he mentioned Sarina, a bottomless pit following the events in the holosuite spy game, a darkness when Garak first approached him all those years ago.

Possesiveness.

The tarry black feeling rolled around his mouth, and Garak chased it with another mouthful of _kanar_ . His mind rebelled at the word, trying to spin explanations and theories to cover his guilt, trying to razor it to shreds as Garak had trained it to in his Order days. But _kanar_ was a remarkable drink, and his mind was sluggish with tipsiness, enough that his guilt did not dissipate under its sharp edge. Pulaski had unearthed a part of him that he had painstakingly covered and patched to the recesses of his mind, and now it stared at him like a charmed cobra, all hissing and spitting poison.

Perhaps it had been good for him once upon a time. His possessiveness over Cardassia had allowed him to survive both his father and exile, and then later his return. It had supported him through rebuilding, reforming and reshaping Cardassia, it had kept him going through his Ambassadorship and Castellanship, even though some days he wanted to throw in his towel and return to his books and his garden. But even so, his possessiveness of Cardassia had been instrumental in his regrets, and hadn’t the events of this week taught him that his regrets only harmed those around him?

Garak sighed, and poured out another measure of _kanar._ Part of Garak wanted to bury itself in melancholy and memories, and escape this painful self-flaggation. But his faults were fat and sluggish, dragged out by stress and engorged with alcohol and a need to reflect. Parmak would’ve told him to stop digging into the darkness stuffed beneath his scales a long time ago, but Garak knew if he had any hope of repenting his regrets he needed to pick and pick and pick and _pick_ until all the poor coping mechanisms he’d stuffed into the cracks of his joints were out and aired. His possessiveness was just another thing he’d tried to press down rather than address, but not anymore.

Not anymore.

Garak raised his eyes to the ceiling, through which Julian Bashir sat staring out at the dust of Cardassia City. _He deserves better_ , Garak thought, idly taking another sip of _kanar._ And he meant that in both an emotional sense and a physical sense. Garak was not lying when he said he’d swap Cardassia in a heartbeat if it meant Bashir would open his eyes again and greet the world. But Bashir also deserved better than a man who gave up on his disabled friend in search of some fantastical dream of what he should be. When Telek had come to him, Garak had felt sorry for the man who’s father only loved him when he was “fixed”, when he was “whole”. And now Garak saw that he was Telek’s father, and Bashir was Telek, the man who did nothing but fall into the trappings of mental illness.

What if Bashir did not come back the same?

What if he didn’t come back at all?

The question caught in his throat, burnt like bile in the crevices of his teeth, and boiled in the slick of his eyes. But he wiped his eyes forced himself to grapple with it, to consider the possibility that maybe Bashir wouldn’t come back, that maybe Garak would have to get used with having someone who was so very different from the man he remembered and loved, or perhaps not having someone there at all. Parmak was right in a sense - he really wasn’t trying to get over this. Ziyal’s voice had already begun to slip away, like sand in the wind of the Alik dunes, and Garak mourned its loss as freshly as if Ziyal had only died last week. Bashir was not yet dead, and yet Garak had been grieving for his loss for the past three years. But if Bashir were an empty shell, what was the point? Why shouldn’t he grieve?

 _Stop saying that_ , Garak told himself sternly. For all he knew, Bashir could still be there, locked in his grief. Or maybe he was there, but changed - changed into the man Bashir should’ve been, before his enhancements. Or perhaps he was an empty shell, but even empty shells needed company, and friends. Pulaski, damn the woman, had taught him that, and Parmak had hammered it home. What point was it for him to write unsent letters to a man who may never read them, when the man sat upstairs, perhaps listening, perhaps not? Garak had not considered how he expressed grief, but suddenly he could feel it like a wet bog reaching up to claw at his neck.

He rubbed a neck ridge, and breathed deeply. A Human phrase came to mind - he had truly made a pig’s ear of things. Parmak, bless them, had seen it, and had tried their damndest to push him in the right direction, but not even Parmak could force an unwanted change in method. Isolating himself and bathing in melancholy had always been his method of handling stress, but the idea of normality and of dragging himself out of the grief quagmire tired him just thinking about it. And yet, how he’d been treating those around him - Julian, his work, Mhevet, Parmak…

"You are so brave and quiet, I forget you are suffering." Garak murmured to the empty room. And it was true - so lost was he in his melancholy, that he’d forgotten to care properly for those whom he loved, and those who loved him in return. The stress of the past week prowled around his subconscious, invaded everything from the flavour of tea to his interactions with other people. Parmak especially - Garak new deep in his gut that he’d been taking a lot from the other Cardassian, even if Parmak kept their own counsel and didn’t tell him it bothered them. If Parmak was harmed due to his lack of awareness, or died-

 _No_.

Struck by a sudden restlessness, Garak abandoned his _kanar_ , and rose from the armchair. His amulet burnt a white-hot pain into his closed fist, but he ignored it, instead climbing the stairs two at a time. His heart beat a relentless hammering against his ribcage as he headed down the hallway, feet punching a matching rhythm into the soft, plush carpet on the floor. He counting the doors until he reached a door at the end of the corridor that sat ajar, allowing the low orange light of the wall lamps to filter into the dark room. Only then did Garak’s heart stop it’s thundering, and it settled as he peered in, and saw that Parmak was indeed alive, breathing deeply, teetering on the edge of sleep, their hair a halo around their head.

 _No,_ Elim thought to himself, _this could not go on._ Garak had once said he’d intended to remake the Cardassian soul as Castellan, and he had - not as completely as he’d hoped, but somewhat. But never had he promised that he had to see it through to its conclusion, or that he would have to sacrifice so much for the love of a country. Cardassia had brought him home, but it was the people that saved him - Parmak, Mhevet, Bashir… Garak shook his head. He had done all that he was able as Castellan. It was time to wind his work down, to take retirement and refocus, face his final scene and rebalance to return all he could to those who’d shaped him in his twilight years. Even if that scene happened to end with his incarceration…

Well, he would handle that when it came. And in the meantime, Garak would start winding down, and would start treating those he cared about with nothing less than what they deserved. It would not take a day, or an evening of _kanar_ to change a lifetime, but Garak would try.

He would.

“Elim.” Parmak said suddenly, rousing Garak from his reverie. “Stop skulking around the door, and come to bed.”

And, smiling a little, Garak did.


	2. Chapter 2

Elim Garak was Up To Something.

Kelas Parmak was very good at telling when Garak was Up To Something. It was kind of like a sixth sense, an ability to take note of Garak’s subtle body language changes, of his manner of speaking, even the attempts to bicker and pick fights over nothing just to get Parmak’s attention. Sometimes it wasn’t even a conscious thought; they could be sat miles away in their office (like today) and like a bolt of electricity Parmak just _knew._ And Parmak could feel it in their gut, as they sat in their office writing up a report, they _knew_ that Elim Garak was Up To Something.

The problem was, Kelas Parmak didn’t exactly know _what_ it was _._

But Parmak was willing to bet their favourite pencil that it was something they should know about.

Perhaps it was recent events that were making them sensitive. The events of that fateful week (stars, had it only been a week? It felt like longer.) preyed heavily on Parmak’s mind, even though it had been nearly three weeks since it occured. The pressure had gotten to them all - and Garak especially, who’d hardened up like a _hamsha_ crab at the first sign of trouble. The half-finished sentences, the unnatural reticence… Garak’s ordinary loquacious nature had been blindingly absent, and even in the weeks that followed there were unspoken things that remained between them. Garak had, of course, apologized and tried to make amends and move on, but Parmak could see him stewing in melancholy and in the past. He was prone to doing that, even before he became Castellan, and it never failed to drive Parmak up the _wall_.

But then again, that penchant for nostalgic melancholy had never made Parmak feel unsafe before. It had never made them quake in their faith that Garak was a better person now, that the past was the past and that Garak was actively trying to repent for the sins of the Cardassian past. And yet that… _conversation_ in the Federation embassy, with Alden, Pulaski and the Federation ambassador still squashed doubts about Garak into the corners of their mind. Even thinking of it sent a shiver of anger up their spine. At the time, they were terrified out of their wits - Alden and the Federation Ambassador had presented their information as if they were concerned for Parmak’s own well-being, and it had honestly taken all Parmak’s effort to remain calm and diplomatically polite when their skin was itching with the desire to flee the room and never face anyone ever again. But Alden was clever, and Parmak realised that now, and knew that to push their buttons they only had to reference their shared past with Garak - and Parmak should’ve seen it coming. They _should’ve_.

There was a quiet _snap_ , and Parmak looked down - the lead of the pencil they were holding was skittering across the desk. They sighed, and reached for the nearby sharpener. _This is not the time to be reminiscing_ , Parmak told themself firmly, _you’ve criticized Garak enough times for that_ . The quiet _scrape_ of wood on metal blade filled the air as they sharpened the pencil, audible even over the gentle music coming from the radio they kept in the corner. After a moment, Parmak removed the pencil and inspected the tip with a keen penny-brown eye, before making a small noise of agreement. They gave the sharpener a sharp _tap_ against the edge of the metal desk to dislodge any clingy shavings, then stowed it away in the desk drawer, and returned to their. Really there was no point reminiscing, or trying to guess what Garak was doing right now - it was hours before they would be able to get home and confirm anything. They had reports to write, obstetrics papers to review, and the last handful of patients - one of which was due to come in soon, if Parmak remembered correctly…

Parmak pushed back on their desk chair and wheeled around to face the computer terminal. A tap here, a click their, _please insert your credentials here_ … ah, yes. A new patient was to arrive in ten minutes - one Mejal Elota-Cam, eight weeks along, expecting twins. Parmak had only seen them once before, when they’d booked their first appointment to ensure everything was up to date and sent from their last doctor. Parmak remembered her somewhat well - she was one of the oldest patients Parmak currently had tasked to them, and also one of the few who ordinarily lived off-world, hence the use of Federation pronouns. However, her notes had been remarkably plain, and Parmak was half hoping that this would be one of their easier cases, despite their patient’s age and the number of babies.

Parmak waited for exactly ten minutes to pass before they called their patient in from the waiting room. Barely a few moments later, there came a knock at the door, once, and then twice. Adding the unfinished report to the pile of paperwork to be completed at a later date, Parmak called in their new patient.

Elota-Cam was delicate for a Cardassian, with a prominent heart-shaped face and narrow shoulders, which was only made more prominent by her silver-bronze scales, indicative of a Northerner somewhere in her gene pool. Her floral Federation-style dress swirled around her tiny feet as she stepped into the room, and Parmak could taste the sweet scent of lemon from her perfume. The woman gave Parmak a toothy, well-worn smile in greeting, which Parmak returned.

“G’d morning, Dr Parmak.” she said, settling down in the seat next to their desk. “How have you been?”

“Not too bad.” Parmak replied, with a deferential nod. “An endless stream of paperwork to be sure, but nothing too taxing. How are you doing?”

“The same, really. I can’t feel them yet, but Nanca from the corner shop said I was starting to show already…”

“That’s good! It’s good to know your babies are growing.” Parmak gave her an encouraging smile, and jotted down a few notes.

“Yes, I’m glad they’re doing fine.” Elota-Cam laughed, but Parmak was certain they could hear a slight undertone of nervousness to their voice. “But I, uh… I wasn’t here to get them checked over.”

“No?” Parmak leant on the desk, and smiled encouragingly at her. “What’s this about?”

“It’s… It’s me, really. Well, these two as well-” she indicated at her stomach; “-but it’s mainly me. Well, until they get bigger, then-”

“Mejal,” Parmak interrupted gently. “It’s ok. Just take your time.”

Elota-Cam blushed, her hand claw reaching up and twisting around a lock of red-brown hair. “Sorry, Dr Parmak. I just… got a bit flustered. I’m no good with doctors - I’ve avoided them for the past ten years, so...”

“It’s alright. What’s happened that’s made you so nervous?”

“I’m… I’d like to have a genetic test done. I’d like to see if I’m partially Bajoran.”

 _Bajoran?_ Parmak felt an eyeridge try to raise in disbelief, but they held it firmly in a neutral position. “What’s brought this on? Is this something you’ve always known, or…?”

“I… no.” Elota-Cam shifted a little in her seat. “My… my _adik_ died a few years ago. When we did _shri-tal_ , they told me that my _yadik_ was not who I thought it was. That they were not a Northerner, and they weren’t even Cardassian.”

“You think your _yadik_ was Bajoran?”

“Maybe. _Adik_ died before telling me their true identity - and I spent years in denial about it all. I’d never met my… well, who I thought was my _yadik_ , because _adik_ said they’d died. But I’d seen photos of them _,_ and they looked like me, at least superficially, and _adik_ had always taught me stories about them. I thought they might’ve been sick, or delirious, or something…”

“It must’ve been difficult for you.” Parmak murmured gently. Elota-Cam nodded slightly, a small movement that Parmak might not have caught had her braids not swung a little and given it away.

“Perhaps. Or maybe I was just being difficult.” Elota-Cam brooded for a few moments, before visibly shaking herself off. “No matter. Water under the bridge, or whatever that Human saying is.”

Parmak smiled a little, the phrase reminding him a little of Garak’s odd turn of speech. “Quite. What made you think your father may have been Bajoran?”

“It’s just… a number of things. Like coincidences - like how here-” She tapped the bridge of her nose. “-it’s thicker here, like there was going to be ridges. And my bone structure, and the colour of my scales - Mother was a big boned city slicker, grey as a rainy day. I was a _waif_ compared to her. And then...”

“And then?”

“Well, there was the huge thing about those mixed-race children - how they were experimented on. Did you read the piece the _Nestor_ journal wrote about Telek?”

Parmak remembered it well - both they and Garak had been visibly irritated that the press had managed to pounce on Telek before they were admitted to a local psychiatric unit, feeling that it was wholly unfair for the affairs of an innocent, sick man to be plastered in the journals. But Parmak held their counsel for the moment, and merely nodded.

“I did.”

“”I read it, and it… it just _fitted_ . I remember I’d been sick for a year when I was six - _adik_ had always said it was _tiamek_ fever, but if they lied about my _yadik_ …” Elota-Cam suddenly laughed, and looked down at her feet. “I’m sorry, I know this doesn’t sound like much - I mean, the tests might not pick anything up, because they were trying to remove Bajoran genomes, and there might not be any left. And _stars_ , there are even public figures who don’t think the atrocity actually happened-”

“If it helps,” Parmak said, with a slight self-deprecating smile. “I believe it happened.”

Elota-Cam blinked. “You do?”

“I trust Telek to know what happened to themself. And there’s nothing lost if the Government investigate and find nothing anyway.”

She laughed, and the last vestiges of nervousness rolled off her shoulders, and she relaxed. “That’s what I say at work - we’ve been having discussions about this in the office ever since the papers were released.”

“Did you tell them about your… suspicions?”

“Ah. No. Some of them are… well, they’re not fond of outsiders. They’re nice enough, mind you, but it took them several months for them to even speak to me, because I lived in the Federation borders for so long.”

“I understand.” Parmak honestly wished they didn’t understand so well, but they had been called over by a harried nurse several times, and asked to look over a Cardassian patient because they won’t have a Federation nurse look over their ailment. “Well, there’s no harm in testing for Bajoran genes - there may be some remnants left, after all. I’ll take samples now for you.”

“Thank you.” Elota-Cam smiled at them as Parmak turned to examine their medical equipment. “But, there is one other thing…”

Parmak paused in their examination of a bottle of mouthwash. “What is it?”

“I… don’t take this the wrong way, but I’d like to see if my babies will look Bajoran too.”

A little warning light dinged at the back of Parmak’s mind, and Parmak peered a little at the woman in front of them. “You think they will?”

“They might. I’m not going to abort them or anything if they are-” Parmak felt themself relax a little at those words. “-but my partner’s Cardassian through and through. We’ll need some time to prepare if our children are going to look different from the both of us.”

“I see.” Parmak turned back to their medical equipment. “That’s fine - but you’ll have to wait until they’re a little bigger before we can test them. We can test you now, and then test them in about a month, if that’s alright?”

“That would be fantastic.” Elota-Cam’s smile broadened into a grin. “Thank you so much Doctor Parmak, you have no idea how much this means to me- to _us_.”

Parmak smiled in return, and began the necessary arrangements to begin the procedure. It only took them five minutes to complete, and they were soon waving Elota-Cam out of the office with a smile on their face. But Elota-Cam’s story lingered in the back crevices of Parmak’s mind as they worked through the rest of their patients, and somewhere deep inside themself, Parmak knew that the results of the test would not be the finished solution Elota-Cam thought it would be.


	3. Chapter 3

Far away from Kelas Parmak and their premonition of a scheme, Elim Garak was working late, putting that scheme into action.

The Castellan’s office was bright, despite the late hour. The Cardassi sunset threw rays of gold, red and pink light through the floor-length windows, casting everything in an almost mystical glow - the filing cabinets, the sofa and armchairs, the desk, and the Castellan himself. The blinds were only half-drawn, creating shuttered shadows across half of Garak’s chair, and leaving the other half of his body bright and unadorned. The thin, barely perceptible scent of coffee lingered in the air, its source a half-drunk cup sat on the edge of his desk, which Garak periodically sipped at as he worked.

Garak hated working late. He hated working late with a _passion._ Oh, serving Cardassia of course reaped its own satisfying rewards, but that didn’t stop Garak from wishing that at sunset he could be driven home and could indulge in some light reading, or assist with dinner, or something other than staring at a computer terminal. On its good days, the job was interesting, and on its bad days, it was exhausting and frustrating. And it didn’t help that Garak had, in all honesty, been putting this particular piece of work off for weeks.

He glanced out at the Cardassi skyline, and rubbed the bridge of his nose, feeling a headache growing there. It had been two weeks since his drunken commitment to becoming a better partner, a better _person,_ and a better friends, and in true Garak style he’d promptly tried to bury the uncomfortable truth and forget about it. And that had worked, for a time - with no social engagements, Garak could pay more attention to Parmak, and to Julian who he’d been reading Enigma tales to the past two weeks, but the job had still come first. He’d somehow managed to convince himself that he _needed_ to do this, and that, and he couldn’t wind this down _just_ yet…

Until now.

Garak toyed with the small comlink attached to his monitor. This was one (of what would be many) tasks whose management depended entirely on whether he expected to serve out his term to the end of the year and retire, or whether he was going to stand for re-election. This call he had to make with the Bajoran first minister was the first step on the road to reconciliation with Bajor. As was customary, the heads of state exchanged phone calls to lay out their key negotiation points, and they would warn each other of what was possible, and what wasn’t. Garak had a good feeling that there would be some things the Bajorans would want that his cabinet, and the State as a whole would flatly revolt against.

Even if all went well today, it would be a long road after this phone call - it was traditional for both the head of the military, the _jagat’or_ and the Castellan to participate in diplomatic relations, but for clearly obvious reasons Garak had no desire to place the _jagat’or_ in there, which left him. Or rather, as he was trying to wind down his operations, not him - his mind was very much on the “I have to stay for the good of Cardassia” train, whereas his heart told him that the negotiation table was exactly where he shouldn’t be.

Had he known exactly what he wanted to do, Garak would’ve been on and off the phone hours earlier, and be heading home to his books. But Garak had put it off - it was too early in Bajoran time to call, he needed to do this first, then this, then there was several meetings about what his conversation with the Bajoran First Minister should contain, then there was lunch, then the Bajoran minister was probably having lunch, and then…

And then.

He couldn’t put this off any more. The Bajoran first minister was expecting a call from him today, and it would be horribly rude to keep her waiting. His hand hovered over the comlink, before he dropped it and began to type out the code to contact the highest office on Bajor. The buttons clicked lightly under his touch, their plastic casing well worn from the constant wear required of the Castellan’s office. The comlink rang aloud for a few seconds, the dull _bring_ drumming in his ears, but remarkably quickly it was picked up and forwarded, and it was only five or so minutes before he found himself facing the Bajoran first minister

Shabi Wume was an older woman, whose simply styled red hair had since intermixed with several strands of grey and white, and her nose ridges were indistinguishable from the wrinkle around it. She sat in front of the comlink camera with great majesty, as if she were about to address a roomful of adoring subjects of some monarchy. Her Bajoran earring glittered in the sunlight streaming from a nearby window - clearly it was mid afternoon over there, and Garak could just about here the hustle and bustle of the busy streets of Ashalla over the speakers. Shabi was not looking at him when she blinked up on Garak’s monitor, instead reading what looked like some kind of report, but after a few moments, Garak found her dark blue eyes looking straight at him.

“Castellan Garak.” she greeted, with a nod. “A pleasure.”

“Likewise, First minister.” Garak replied. “I can only apologize for not calling a little sooner.”

Shabi’s mouth twitched into a slight smile. “It was in fact quite a stroke of luck you did not.”

“Oh?”

“Our cabinet meeting ran on for quite some time - they, of course, wanted to discuss what I would be telling you today.”

Garak could only imagine what had happened in those discussions - Garak found Bajorans to be rather short, blunt conversationalists, and long meetings meant that there may be something afoot that Garak would have to consider.

“In which case, I am glad we can speak at an opportune time.” Garak smiled. “Shall we start?”

“Yes.” Shabi shuffled the papers in front of her. “We have a list of requests with regard to these historic crimes - many of them will coincide with the recommendations from your commission.”

Well, that was a start, at least. “Follow-up investigations, prosecutions, and a cross-planetary force to support investigations. You know I support those wholeheartedly.”

“I do. We’d also request that those arrested are extradited to Bajor for their trials.”

And there was the first hurdle. “I hear that. We have… some concerns over extradition.”

“Such as?”

“Some of those who committed atrocities on Bajor are old. Some are in permanent care, some are permanently disabled, and some are dying.”

“And you believe they should not be prosecuted?”

“I believe we must take their age and health into account. They must surely face their crimes - but extradition? Many are too weak to make the journey to Bajor. We must take that into account.”

Shabi thought for a moment, then minutely shook her head. “You realise some Bajoran citizens will not see that as justice? They would ask for some other justice.”

Garak blinked. “You’re talking reparations.”

“Yes.” Shabi stared him down the monitor. “Bajor lost much during the occupation - life, culture, history… You know that - you have experienced such destruction.”

Garak did - he remembered all too well what sustained occupation did to a planet. Lakarian City, the hub of Cardassian art, had been a hard loss for them all, in both the number of people dead and the culture and histories lost forever. And on a more personal level, the library kept by Tain and his mother - he could still remember shifting rubble and catching his fingers on broken memory rods, destroyed by the bombing and the collapsing buildings.

“I think that would be something best left to our negotiating teams.” Garak finally said. “Cardassia does not have the monetary resources to compensate financially, but another exchange…”

“We could consider that.” Shabi nodded, apparently satisfied. “Talking of negotiations…”

And here was the part Garak knew would be a sticking point with the Bajoran people and their First Minister.

“You of course know,” Garak started, almost a little hesitantly. “That our normal protocol in these matters is to form a negotiation team to include both the Castellan and the military _jagat’or_.”

“Yes.” Shabi drew out that final ‘s’ into a long hiss. “You’ll of course understand that we’d prefer not to be negotiating with your military.”

Garak nodded slowly. “I didn’t think you would. That would be a hard limit for you?”

“Absolutely.”

“In which case…” Garak pretended to look at his notes, buying himself a few extra seconds to decide on a course of action. “...can I suggest a more independent approach?”

Shabi tilted her head and looked at him in interest. “What did you have in mind?”

“I believe a diplomatic team may work best here, rather than a governmental approach.” Garak paused, but upon seeing no change in her expression, he continued. “An independent legal team, on both our sides, to assess our legislature and to work out how and where they intersect, and the best course forward for justice. A treaty, on how we should proceed with extra-judical matters”

“And no governmental input?”

“As little as possible. I would suggest Councillor Carnis sit in on the discussions - she was the _nestor_ on this commission after all, and you would probably want a representative Bajor-”

“We would.”

“-but otherwise, no. Justice is a matter I trust to our legal systems and our police forces. I believe it may be for the best to leave the government and popular opinion out of such a discussion.”

“Understandable.” Shabi paused for a moment. “Will your government approve such a hands-off approach?”

“It may be… difficult to persuade them.” Already Garak was envisioning the spirited discussion he would be having with the _jagat’or_ in particular. “But I believe it’s necessary. Negotiating with the _jagat’or_ would be awkward, and I don’t believe these negotiations would benefit from having a government representative that could change by the years end.”

“Change?” Shabi blinked. “Are you planning to retire, Castellan?”

“Our elections will be held this _pewep’kir_ \- there is a possibility that I will not be in office to see this treaty to its conclusion.”

That was a clear avoiding of the question, and he could tell Shabi knew. She inspected him for a moment more, but then looked back down at her notes, clearly filing the information away for later.

“For what it’s worth, Castellan,” she then said, turning a page. “I hope your successor is as willing to negotiate as you are.”

Well, that was one way of putting it. “Thank you.” he said simply. “Back to the topic at hand…”

“Of course.” Shabi looked momentarily down at her notes. “There are some who have requested that negotiations take place on Bajor. Am I correct in assuming that would not be acceptable to Cardassia?”

“It… would not be our first choice.” Garak could imagine the look on some of his cabinet members’ faces if he even breathed a word about setting foot on Bajoran soil. “We’d consider a Federation planet, however. Preferably not Qo’nos.”

“That’s understandable.” Shabi made a note on a scrap of paper. “We’ll discuss it, and return to you with alternate suggestions.”

“Thank you.” Garak paused for a moment. “Were there any other major points?”

“Only one.” She shuffled her papers again, and Garak got the sense that she wasn’t looking forward to discussing this one. “You know it has been Bajoran policy to locate, identify and issue citizenship to those of Bajoran descent who were born outside Bajor.”

Garak nodded. This was a policy put in place following the occupation, when Cardassians had routinely kidnapped Bajorans for political ransom, or had half-Bajoran children and squirreled them and the other parents away in some far-flung moon.

“You have our full co-operation in locating any you think you may have missed out on.”

Shabi laughed, a little unkindly. “Of course. But this is more specific - it is to do with those half-Bajoran children who underwent genomic conversion to become full Cardassians. We’d like your assistance in locating them, so that we may offer them citizenship.”

It was Garak’s turn to laugh. “First Minister, you are fully welcome to try and find them. But it would be like searching for needles in a haystack - there are only seven of them. And identifying them would be incredibly difficult - if their Bajoran genomes were destroyed-”

“I understand that,” Shabi intterupted; Garak really didn’t think she did, but he let it slide.”Nevertheless, it is Bajoran policy, and we request that locating them is made part of the treaty. What happened to them was a war crime.”

“It was,” Garak conceded softly, before clearing his throat. “We’ll have to discuss that with some medical personnel, to see how feasible that is, but we’ll take it under consideration. Was there anything else?”

“Only a few smaller requests - but those can be delegated to our negotiating teams.” Shabi gave him a small smile. “I hope that negotiations go as smoothly as this conversation has.”

There was a hidden question there, a _why are you making this easy,_ or an _i expected this to be harder._ “I wish the same too,” Garak murmured. “Cardassia wishes to understand its history, and repent its atrocities - we see this as one step on a long road towards repentance.”

Shabi’s mask slipped a little, and Garak saw a brief flicker of surprise before she returned to her customary half-smile. “Of course,” she murmured. “We hope to hear from you soon, Castellan Garak.”

The screen went dark, and Garak breathed out a sigh. But he did not stop to contemplate the discussion - instead, he packed his things and left, heading towards the door and towards home, where his comforts awaited him.


	4. Chapter 4

_“nu pact arget’net vishtU’I; lam loxka ga’U; nu napset ga’I, ni tasvitu’U…”_

The radio crooned softly in the background of the quiet kitchen in the Castellan residence, seeping through the heavy scent-thickened air and wrapping around the knickknacks that hung around the space - personalized mugs, Cardassian cooking implements, an abandoned newspaper, several pads, and a worn green-checkered apron, the blue pair of which currently found itself on Parmak as they pottered around the stove. On top of the old-fashioned stove, there sat a large metal pot, filled with a fragrant red stew.

Parmak didn’t often cook. They much preferred to bake, or even just to simply eat whatever was given to them. Elim was normally the cook in the house, mainly because he normally got home earlier, and Parmak helped out with table-laying or whatever was left when they managed to get home. But today was a little different - Parmak, in what was due to nothing less than a small miracle, had wrangled an early exit from the practice, and had arrived home earlier than expected. Garak had texted ahead to say he’d be running late, and Parmak therefore took the chance to flip the tables a little and get started on dinner. Plus, it had the handy effect of stopping their imagination running away from them and conjuring up implausible scenarios for what exactly Garak was planning.

They’d only been home for about an hour when they heard the jangle of keys in the door, and the sound of footsteps. Parmak had lived with Garak long enough to recognize the light, slightly uneven footsteps, and therefore didn’t even turn around to watch him walk through the kitchen door. Instead, they simply called out over their shoulder;

“Busy day, Elim?”

“You wouldn’t _believe_ how much so.” Garak sighed in response. “Paperwork, meetings, and then a phonecall with the Bajoran First Minister… What are you making?”

“ _Depset_ soup, and there’s some _bet’to_ bread in the oven. Nothing complex.” There was a thud of something hitting the wooden dining table, and Parmak heard the slight crinkle of a bag. “Did you bring something?”

“ _Net’li_ syrup and _podUl jam_ \- you’ve been running on bottle scrapings for the past week.” The bottles clinked as Garak moved them from the bag into their rightful place in the cupboard. “And _manlik_ pudding, as an apology for being so late.”

“You know you don’t have to apologize for that.” Parmak scrapped some chopped sweet vegetables into the pot. “It happens to the best of us.”

“I know. Still, it was on offer, and I know you like it.” Parmak heard Garak move around the kitchen, and ignored him, instead focussing on the food in front of him. It was relatively simple fare - Parmak only had to be careful not to allow the _brika_ grains and lentils to stick to the bottom, and to make sure the bread in the oven didn’t burn. Happy with how the food was progressing, Parmak stepped back and brushed down their hands, already planning ahead to prepare the spices and-

-and apparently have Garak wrap his arms around their middle into a bear hug. Parmak let out an involuntary squawk, surprised at the sudden movement, before they looked backwards over their shoulder at a smug-looking Garak.

“ _Elim._ ”

There was a slight chuckle, and Parmak felt a dry, scaled set of lips press a kiss to his ear ridge. “I couldn’t resist, my dear.” Garak rumbled, a laugh bubbling on the edge of his voice. “Is there anything I can help with for dinner?”

“Not right now, but the table needs doing later, and the bread needs cutting.” Parmak pressed their hands against Garak’s wrapped arms, and pushed a little - not struggling, but an indication that they would like to be let go. “Can I get back to it?”

“After this song?” Garak loosened his arms, but didn’t fully let go. “This is your favourite, if remember rightly. Esjka Nabeny’s ‘Hot Temper’?”

Parmak leant back against him with a soft _thump_. “You know it is,” they replied. “Just this one song, then.”

Garak re-tightened his arms, and swayed along with the rhythm. Parmak closed their eyes and simply enjoyed the moment, the soft movement, the good music, the smells and sensations of _home_. Oh, how they had missed moments like this - where Garak stopped pretending he was the sharp quick-fire media man and allowed himself to be soft, and vulnerable. Garak could be a sappy romantic sometimes, and as much as Parmak teased him about reading trashy books and acting like the characters in them, Parmak enjoyed for these moments just as much as Garak did. The melancholy moods that had plagued the man for so many months seemed to have momentarily vanished into the ether, and instead they were a newly-enjoined couple again, without the stress of politics or work or any other minutiae. It almost made them forget that Garak was almost definitely Up To Something.

Almost.

The song came to its end, and Nabeny’s croon faded into the city accent of the radio host. Parmak leant their head back against Garak’s shoulder, neatly accepting a soft kiss, their fingers reaching up to trace the small line of ridges that lined Garak’s jaw. Only then did Garak finally let them go, lips parting and hands brushing their hips and waist. Parmak turned back to the cooking, that had miraculously stayed quiet during the interlude, but was now beginning to complain in the form of spitting.

“I’ll read to Julian for a bit, then I’ll come down and do the table.” Garak said, giving Parmak a warm smile as he headed towards the door. “That alright for you?”

“Of course.” Parmak sprinkled a few spices into the pot, again focussed on their task. “And then, after dinner, you can tell me about what mischief you’re planning - because I know you’re planning _something_.”

“Mischief? Me?” Garak’s voice echoed in from the living room, a light teasing tone to its edge. “I don’t know what you mean.”

Not even dignifying that with a reply, Parmak returned to being wholly consumed by their cooking.

BREAK

Parmak did not immediately pounce on Garak after dinner. Having lived with Garak for so long, and been friends before that, Parmak knew Garak would play games with them until he was good and ready to talk. Instead, Parmak spoke little of plans or machinations, and instead happily small talked, discussing the chapters of the enigma tale Garak had read to Julian that evening (Parmak, as was expected, found it fussy and melodramatic; Garak found it delightful) and gossiping about politicians and the news of the day. It wasn’t until they’d fallen into a lull of working companionably on separate projects that Garak finally put down his PADD, and looked at Parmak over his reading glasses.

“Are you going to be looking at me like that all evening?”

“Like what?” Parmak asked, idly flicking over to the next page of their book.

“Like you’re expecting me to say something.” Garak lounged back on the sofa, and watched them. “What are you thinking?”

Carefully, Parmak put down their book, and smiled benignly at Garak. “I’m just curious about what you’re planning.”

“For what?”

“For anything. I know you’re planning something. I don’t know what it is yet, but there is a _plan_.”

“I have several plans right now.” Garak said. “For example, a plan which involves you, our bed-”

“Don’t be crude.” Parmak interrupted with a wry smile. “You know which plan - you were doing something about it today.”

“Ah, That plan.” Garak carefully stretched out, and Parmak could tell he was buying himself more time. “It’s only an idea…”

“Rubbish. You wouldn’t be avoiding the question if it were an idea.” Parmak moved over to sit on the arm of the sofa, gently nudging Garak’s shoulder. “Come on, tell me.”

Garak shook his head, but thankfully started speaking. “You know I mentioned earlier about calling the Bajoran First Minister?”

“Yes… I’m guessing this is about the report into the occupation?”

“A little. The First Minister lay down what she wanted, and we discussed the possibility of a negotiating team which didn’t include the military leader.”

“Breaking tradition?” Parmak sucked a little air in. “I bet Renel won’t be happy to hear that.”

“I’ll be meeting with them - and the rest of the cabinet - tomorrow, before the official announcement.” Garak paused for a moment. “However, they may take it a bit better once they learn I won’t be taking on the traditional Castellan seat either.”

“Not taking the seat?” Parmak blinked, their mind already spinning with possibilities. Of all the plans Parmak was expecting, this was not it. Garak lived for Cardassia and for Cardassian prospects - not taking that seat was the last thing Parmak would’ve expected him to do.

“Surprised?” Garak asked, watching him with a slight smile. Parmak shook their head.

“You normally like to have your fingers in everything.” they answered. “What’s changed?”

“Nothing, and yet everything.”

“That was descriptive.” Now it was Garak’s turn to nudge Parmak.

“Don’t be sarcastic.”

“But why would you leave it to someone else? Having Renel on the team would be disastrous, agreed, but going this far?”

“It has another benefit too.” Garak paused for a minute, and Parmak could see him formulating the best way to put his plan. “It means there won’t be any messy handover when I hand over my post.”

“Hand over… Why?”

“I’m retiring, I think. End of the year. I’m taking your advice, and will be spending my twilight years reading bad books and pottering around my garden.”

Of all the unbelievable things to come out of Elim Garak’s mouth… Parmak leant against the back of the sofa, and shook their head. Really, this was up there with stating Cardassia was going to join the Federation. And yet, Garak had seemed sincere about that too… But retirement? Parmak could barely imagine Garak not trying to get involved with things he shouldn’t - he always tried to get involved in ongoing investigations whenever Arati Mhevet came for _ta’kUra_ lunch. Retirement was almost a pipe dream.

“I always thought you’d die with your boots on.” Parmak finally said, looking down to where Garak was studiously not looking at them.

“Well, I have died with my boots on.” Garak replied, quite matter of factly. “Several times, in fact. Especially when I am forced to behold the absolutely _appalling_ decor Councillor Mretev insists on having in her office-”

“ _Elim._ ”

Garak was still laughing, but he picked up Parmak’s hand and pressed an apologetic kiss to the palm. “My apologies, my dear. But yes - I am most definitely retiring.”

“Well,” Parmak said after a moment’s pause. “I suppose we’ll finally have a chance to discuss all those books you’ve been putting off.”

Garak grinned at them. “And perhaps recommend them to you for some light reading.”

“Foist them on me, you mean. No doubt they’ll all be melodramatic enigma tales.”

“I like other things too! Even you liked ‘Much Ado About Nothing’.”

“That was an exception.” Garak continued to grin at them, and Parmak rolled their eyes. “But back to the topic of your retirement…”

“Yes?”

“Why now? What made you change your mind?”

Garak let the smile slip from his face, and he sighed. “Would you believe me if I said my reasons were complicated?”

“Probably. I’d still ask you to explain them anyway.”

Garak paused for a moment, and gathered his thoughts. “You know when I ran for Castellan, I said there would be checks and balances, that would keep me safe.”

“And you feel unsafe now?”

“Not feel - I know I am unsafe. Those checks and balances should’ve reassured everyone that I would not fall back on old ways. But they didn’t.”

Parmak felt a lead weight drop to the bottom of their stomach. “You’re talking about Alden.”

“Not just Alden - under pressure, I reverted back to my old way of acting, to hiding and obfuscating. Alden exploited that.” Garak turned on the sofa so that he faced Parmak, and very gently curled his hands around Parmak’s own. “Alden hurt you, but so did I, and it was the way I acted that made you at risk from Alden.”

Parmak shook their head, sharply. “You are not at fault for Alden. You shouldn’t leave the Castellanship for me-”

“But I should. And I must. Think back, Kelas - to the weeks and months before. I haven’t been a good partner, I know that. I haven’t treated you with the respect you deserve, nor with the love I feel for you. And that goes for everyone I love - stars, I hadn’t visited Julian for weeks even though the man lives upstairs!”

“You haven’t been the best partner recently, no.” Parmak admitted, still feeling the sting of rejection and heartache from when Garak had insisted on being overworked. “But that happens when you get busy. People fall by the wayside.”

“Not like this. Never like this.” Garak’s blue eyes were filled with emotion, as he looked almost pleadingly at Parmak. “Don’t you see? I don’t want to be too busy for you. How can I care and look after the Cardassian people if I can’t even treat you how you should be treated? How can I look after a planet if I can’t look after those dearest to me?”

“But the _Castellanship,_ Elim? You are one of the most fondly looked upon Castellans right now. You know that.”

“I know. But they’ll just have to find another. If there is a choice between you and Julian and the people I love, and the Castellanship, I will always choose you.” Garak’s hands tightened briefly around their own. “I _will_ . I love _you,_ my dear. I won’t make the same mistake twice. I won’t hurt you again, I _can’t._ ”

“Elim…” Parmak wanted to argue some more, shake into him that he could and should stay in the job, that they themselves were not that important, but Parmak knew that Garak had made up his mark. The words that had sprung from Garak’s lips were heartfelt, and Parmak would be lying if they didn’t say they felt somewhat pleased and comforted a little at the declaration of love. Their arguments to try and convince Garak to stay in the role melted away, little by little, and Parmak knew instinctively that this was what Garak felt he needed to do right now.

“I don’t want you to regret this.” Parmak said softly, tracing the scales on the back of Garak’s hand. Parmak saw Garak relax just a little, into an open expression of understanding. He leant forward, and Parmak allowed him to press a gentle, reassuring kiss to Parmak’s lips.

“I won’t bring it out on you if I do.” he said, quietly, with conviction. “I promise. I will make this work, and I will not hurt you like that again.”

And, despite all that had happened, Parmak believed him.


End file.
